


Dramatis personae

by butterflymind



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind
Summary: Just for once Harriet would like to attend an event with Peter at which death does not make an unexpected entrance.





	Dramatis personae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmilla/gifts).



Roland Barker was good at his job, it was something that he prided himself on. He wasn’t always popular, couldn’t seem to muster the level of bonhomie that seemed to be required in the theatre these days, and he worked at his own pace, to his own rules. But he had been good at his job as a boy running errands at the Palace, and as one of a fleet of anonymous stage hands at the Garrick. He’d been good as a flyman and good as props, and now as the stage manager of the Lyric Theatre he was efficient and reliable, just the right side of friendly with his staff and taciturn with his employers.

Which was why when the first patrons began to take their seats in the stalls he did not panic, or even worry overmuch. He had a feeling that the house may be open a little early, he had certainly not heard the distant ring of the bar bells. He cast another glance upwards, but the air above him remained stubbornly dark, and the problem stubbornly unknowable. All he knew was that ten minutes ago, on a last minute check that was somewhat more last minute than Roland was comfortable with, one of the pieces of set due to come down in the second act had remained stubbornly out of sight in the flies. He had tested the ropes with the flyman, and then himself just to be sure, but the wardrobe had not budged a single inch and the rope felt oddly slack and unmoving. They would just have to sort it out in the interval, when the scene reset and they could safely close the tabs without hitting the box set that made up most of the first act. This sort of thing was so common it barely even registered with Roland these days. They would sort it out in the interval, and all would be well.

***

‘This,’ Harriet thought as smiled a slightly vacant smile and took another sip of middling sherry, ‘is almost a precise encapsulation of everything I was trying to avoid.’ Next to her Peter was conversing jovially with the owner of the theatre, with only the slightest hint of straightness in his spine and tension at his shoulder. It wasn’t even that the owner was a particularly objectionable man, just a trifle overdone. He wasn’t a bad man, or even a stupid one, but he had that air of obsequiousness in his manner that people often adopted when talking to Peter. Usually Peter could shock or cajole them out of the worst of it, but this specimen was being particularly stubborn. Harriet had a horrible feeling it was because the man was acting the part of a man talking to the aristocracy, and no amount of real life experience was going to jog him out of his performance.

“And of course we are delighted, delighted to have Miss Vane’s words gracing our poor stage.” The owner simpered just beyond the point of Harriet’s endurance.

“I didn’t write the words.” She spoke slightly sharper than she had meant, surprising herself. “I wrote the book. It was Mr Edwards who wrote the play.” She saw Peter shoot her a glance, amused.

“Of course, of course.” The owner had taken on the look of a panicked animal. “I meant of course that it is your plot, your genius that makes the work.”

“I think I heard the bell.” Peter cut in. Harriet returned his glance with one of her own. She had been listening for the bell like a dog awaiting the postman, and had heard no such thing. “Shall we go in?” The owner had quite obviously not heard the bell either, but his sense of position, or perhaps of performance, precluded arguing with Peter about anything.

“This way.” He began, directing them towards the stalls. Clearly fearing that the man intended to show them all the way to their seats, Peter patted him on the arm in a friendly way.

“You must have a lot to do.” Peter took Harriet’s arm, “I’m sure we can find our way from here.” He lead her away before the owner could reply. As they found their seats Peter murmured in her ear. “Thank goodness, I thought we would never shake the man.”

They were seated in the stalls. The theatre had inevitably attempted to press a box upon them, but Peter had declined with cheerful rudeness.

“Can’t stand a box.” He had replied to the theatre owner’s anxious enquiry. “The sight lines are terrible. I only ever sit in a box if I do not wish to see the play.” Harriet hoped for the poor man’s sake that Peter had never previously sat in a box at his establishment. On the other hand, she wasn’t entirely convinced she wanted to see this play herself, so perhaps a box would have been a better call. She had read over the script and given her approval, but between one thing and another had had little time to participate in the process. It felt odd to her, to allow her work this freedom. She had spent so long wrestling control of her own work from people who would take it from her, this was a strange and new experience. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. The stalls were beginning to fill now, the drinks bell having apparently really sounded this time. A low murmur filled the air around them as people found their seats, fell over stray umbrellas and apologised to inanimate objects. Glancing at their neighbours Harriet saw to her relief that no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention, despite Peter’s distinctive appearance and their association, which was by now distressingly well publicised. Peter, bless his good sense, was diligently studying the programme with his head bowed, until the lights began to dim and the conversation around them faded to silence. Harriet allowed herself a moment to squeeze Peter’s hand briefly in the dark, and then consciously relaxed herself as the play began.

***

By the time the curtain had fallen for the interval Mr Barker, as he insisted he was called by all those under his command, was just at the point of becoming concerned. Not worried, he didn’t believe such emotions were useful and discouraged them in himself, but with the interval called they had not quite half an hour to resolve whatever problem was tangling the flies. Without the flown set the climax of the second half would be somewhat lacking in both atmosphere and furniture. The situation was not helped much by Frank, the Master Carpenter who had nominal control of both the flies and the set, and actual control of very little.

“It’s Tom’s night off.” Frank said mournfully, staring up into the dark. Tom was Frank’s long time assistant, who had begun learning from Frank at fifteen, when Frank still had his nerves, and now at twenty-one ran the department in Frank’s name. Roland had known it was a bad sign for the production when Tom took the opening night off, for the first time in anyone’s memory. He hoped whatever friend Tom had simply had to meet this evening was worth the trouble he (or he thought, more likely she) was causing.

“Can you go up?” Roland asked. “Or send the boy?” He made the last suggestion reluctantly. The boy as a general rule could not be relied on to tie his shoelaces, let alone untangle a rope. Frank’s face was a picture of horror and indecision and Roland, against his better judgement, made a third suggestion. “If I go up.” He said, gently. “Can you tell me what to do?” A look of wondrous relief passed over Frank’s face.

“It’ll be on the stage left side.” He said, suddenly confident. “Probably something’s tied up where it shouldn’t be, or jumped a pulley.” He thought for a moment, scratching his chin. “There shouldn’t be anything, unless some damned fool has been up there messing about.”

Roland nodded, and began the slow climb to the fly floor, and then the grid. In his head time ticked away. Ten minutes perhaps, but by then he must be clear. They had wasted far too much time trying to fix this from the ground. He reached the floor, where ropes ran across the pulleys. He was just about to start counting when one caught his eye, clearly displaced, pulled haphazardly out of the groove of the pulley. Swearing he pulled it back, felt the tension on the line relax as it slipped into place. Somewhere below he saw a twitch from the suspended wardrobe and smiled to himself in satisfaction. Five minutes to go, as he came down the ladder he gave a whistle and saw the scurrying of his stagehands as they completed the set for the opening scene. There was a slight groan in the ropes as the stage lantern opened, in preparation for the smoke from the blank fired at the end of act two. He jumped from the ladder and saw Frank watching him with nervous hope.

“A line out of the pulley. Looked like it had been pulled, or tripped over.” Frank nodded.

“That boy I suspect. I’ll tan his hide if I can catch him.” As he said it the call for beginners rang out, and the two men left the stage just before a chink of light could show through the front curtains.

***

As they reached the climax of the second act, Harriet had begun to relax, in contrast to the rest of the audience who it seemed were reaching a gratifying level of tension. Her eyes darted to Peter. She was certain he had worked it all out before the curtain came down at the interval, but nonetheless he was giving the stage his full attention, his profile oddly lit by the light spilling out. She felt a great rush of affection for him, and having trained herself for so long not to feel such things they still came as a surprise. She felt calmer now than she had in months, possibly years. Maybe just for a little while they could be like this, before the next thing came along. She was under no illusions that life with Peter would ever be all serenity, nor did she want it to be. But between Philip, and Wilvercombe, and Oxford, she had begun to feel almost haunted by tragedies, as if by playing with such things in her imagination, she had brought them upon herself. It was a deeply irrational thought, she knew that, but it had crept in at the corners of her mind just the same.

Still here she was, with her fiancé of all things, watching a plot of her own devising where she knew every beat of the action, every shock and revelation. Bored of her own musings she returned her full attention to the stage, just as the scene changed to the final set of the piece. The stage was in semi darkness, but she could just see the scurrying of the stage hands, setting out the facsimile of the bedroom where the murderer would be revealed, attempting to silence the last witness of the crime. The bed was wheeled on, as other furniture, the dressing table and chest of drawers, were lowered down from the flies. Harriet took a moment to appreciate the cleverness of it all, slipping together like a jigsaw puzzle. Even as she thought it though, something seemed out of place. From the flies had lowered an object she could not quite make out, but which bore no resemblance to any furniture she could think of. There was a sharp cry, and the front tabs suddenly jerked as if to close, but it was all too late and the lights suddenly blazed up on stage. A body was hanging from the flies, swaying slightly as the rope strung about its neck moved and creaked. ‘Haunted’ Harriet thought faintly. A different kind of calmness settled over her, and she turned to Peter only to find him already out of his seat and gone. This did not surprise as much as perhaps it ought. The audience, who had been momentarily shocked into silence, were now making noises of increased panic, when the front curtains suddenly jerked into life and closed on the macabre scene. There was a second moment of silence, but before the noise could build again a familiar figure stepped out in front of the tab line.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Peter said, mustering all of his aristocratic authority. “There has been a terrible accident, as I am sure you are all aware.” He seemed calmness personified, but Harriet could detect a slight twitching in his hand and the line of his shoulders. “The police have been called, and we ask that you remain calm until you receive further instructions.” Peter slipped back through the curtains, the audience began to talk amongst themselves again. As far as Harriet could tell Peter’s speech had not placated the whole group, but had sown enough seeds of confusion as to prevent the crowd developing the singleness of purpose required for a proper panic. Looking around herself, Harriet slipped out of her seat and headed in the direction she thought Peter must have gone. A small door, deliberately inconspicuous, lead her into a corridor that seemed to run back and behind the stage. At that moment a familiar figure appeared at the other end.

“Harriet!” Peter sounded oddly relieved. “I knew you wouldn’t be far behind me.” He beckoned her forward and took her arm as she reached him, leading her through the darkened stage areas and to a tiny cubby hole to the side of the stage. It was occupied by a slim young man in working clothes, who even in this dim light Harriet could see had gone distinctly green. “Keep it together Walters” Peter muttered to him in passing, “there’s a good chap.”

They passed through the wings and on to the stage. The body was still hanging from the rope, and the cast and crew still milling about were giving it a wide berth, their eyes glancing towards it before skittering away to look at anything else. Up close Harriet could see that the face was bloated, that there was rope burn at the neck and blood at the back of his head. ‘Stunned with a blow, strangled with a rope’ her mind supplied, almost automatically.

“Does anyone know who this man is?” Peter asked.

“That’s Mr Lawrence.” A boy, the youngest person on the stage by some considerable margin, piped up. For a moment Harriet wondered if he should be here at all, why somebody had not taken him away from the gruesome sight. He looked barely more than a child. He didn’t seem afraid though, in fact Harriet had the horrible feeling that he was almost enjoying himself.

“And who is Mr Lawrence?”

“He is the theatre manager my Lord.” One of the cast cut in before the boy could say something impertinent. Peter looked about to ask another question when he was interrupted by the arrival on the stage of a brace of uniformed constables and, following them at a sedate pace, Inspector Parker. “Hello Peter. Miss Vane.” Parker gave her a courteous nod, and Harriet a slight twitch of a smile in response. They were not exactly friends yet, there was still a little too much in the past between them, but soon they would be family.

“Parker!” Peter exclaimed with an unseemly amount of enthusiasm. “What have we here then?”

“You tell me Peter.” Said Parker drily, “you seem to have been in the right place at the right time once again.” Peter had the grace to look a little sheepish.

“Coincidence my dear Inspector, is both my best friend and my worst enemy.” Around them the cast and crew were standing nervously, clearly unsure what to make of this exchange. Parker motioned to two of the constables.

“Take these people off the stage.” He said. Peter sidled up next to him, leaning close. Harriet strained to catch what he was murmuring to the policeman.

“I wouldn’t let them go if I were you.” Peter muttered. “One of them must have done it, and if we can just keep them here we might have a murderer by tonight.” Parker nodded and exchanged a few quiet words with the constables. Once the stage had cleared he made a closer inspection of the body.

“We’ll have to wait for the doctor of course, but I’d say what killed him is fairly obvious.”

“Do you mean the rope around his neck, or the blow to his head?” Peter asked. “More to the point, how long as the blighter been up there?”

“Well, it must have been after last night’s performance.” Harriet put in. “They had a preview last night, before the grand opening.”

“Of course they did.” Peter smiled at her as if she was the brightest creature he had ever seen. Harriet, who did not feel her contribution merited such praise, looked steadily back at him. There was a commotion from the wings and the doctor joined them on the stage. He was a small, spare man, blinking at them through over-large glasses like a mole that had been unexpectedly brought into the light. He glanced at Peter and Harriet, nodded at Parker, then made a beeline for the body.

“I doubt the blow was the cause of death.” He said after a few minutes. “In my estimation the blow knocked him out, but the hanging is what killed him.” He glared at the rope as if it had personally offended him. “Hard to give a time of death before the autopsy, hangings play hell with the usual indicators.” He seemed to notice Harriet for the first time as he turned round, and a slight flush rose to his cheeks. “Begging your pardon.” He said.

Harriet waved a dismissive hand. “Oh never mind all that.”

“Miss Vane is as versed in fictional murder as we are in the real kind.” Peter said cheerfully. “And just as immune to it.” Harriet wasn’t sure quite how true that was, but she wasn’t about to discomfort the doctor further by admitting it.

“Right,” Parker said to the two constables who had remained on the stage. “We might as well cut him down then, and send him off to the mortuary.” Neither constable looked delighted to be given this task. But after a small tussle over who was to hold the body and who to cut the rope, they began to dutifully saw through the thick hemp.

“The manager you say.” Said Parker to Peter, watching the body being cut down and laid on the stage.

“So I am told.” Peter replied. “And I’ve no cause to doubt it, out of the mouths of babes and all.”

“And you think it was one of those here who did it?”

“Must have been. To have hauled that body all the way up there and kept it out of sight. That would take more than just brute strength Parker-Bird, that’s the work of someone who knows what they are about.”

“But why do it?” The question had been worrying at the back of Harriet’s mind for some time and she finally voiced it out loud. “I mean, why go to all that trouble to hide the body? There must be a million dark corners they could have put it in.”

“And why did it join us for the final scene?” Peter rejoined. “Quite right, those are precisely the questions we should be pondering.” He had been crawling around on the stage floor, examining scuff marks in the polished wood. “That and why, of all blasted inconvenient times, Bunter has chosen tonight to have his evening out.”

“You told him to Peter.” Harriet reminded him gently. “We were going to the theatre.”

“We should begin the interviews.” Parker cut in smoothly. “They’re calm for now, but that won’t last when they realise we won’t be letting them go any time soon. Miss Vane, would you like...”

“Oh no, I’d like to see this one through.” Harriet said with some spirit. “If you don’t mind of course.” Parker gave her the same peculiar half smile he often favoured Peter with. Harriet was never sure if it was meant to signify approval or disapproval.

“Of course.” He agreed amicably.

“Lead on Inspector Parker.” Peter said more jovially than could be considered appropriate. “Let us see what may be caught lurking in the wings.” This time, the expression Peter received from both Harriet and Parker was identical.

***

As a man who often found himself uttering the phrase ‘I’m just doing my job’, Mr Barker had a certain amount of sympathy for the constable stationed outside the crew room door. However, that sympathy did not extend to sitting quietly in the crew room when there was clearly work to be done.

“I’m sorry Sir. I can’t let anyone out until the Inspector gives me say-so” The constable repeated, with a sort of slow-witted patience that Roland recognised as being designed to be as immovable as possible. He had used the same tactic himself a fair few times when dealing with the more highly-strung members of the production.

“And when will your Inspector be coming to see us then? No doubt only after he has talked to the cast, and sent them all home to their beds. Always them before us.” If he was trying to engender some fellow feeling of the working man against the oppressive masters, it was proving unsuccessful.

“Actually I thought we might begin with you.” A new voice cut in to the conversation. Roland looked up at the group coming down the narrow staircase to the door. The first was clearly the Inspector, his suit and clothes marked him as such with the same certainty Roland would have felt if he had been a character in a cheap melodrama. The second man was faintly familiar, as if Roland might have glimpsed him in a newspaper, but he recognised the woman as the author of the book this blessed play was based on. ‘Oh Lord.’ He thought. ‘A few books and she thinks she can play detective.’ Nonetheless he lead them to a small room off the main under stage area, and beckoned them all to sit.

“I hope you don’t mind my colleagues joining us.” The Inspector began. “This is Lord Peter Wimsey, and Miss Harriet Vane.” The name sparked instant recognition in Roland. If he remembered rightly Lord Peter was another amateur detective, albeit an aristocratic and apparently successful one. Roland had certain views on amateur dramatics, and extended them to amateur detection.

“Not at all Sir.” Roland said deferentially. It always paid, he had found, to at least start out deferential.

“Now I’m sure you are all extremely shocked by what has happened.” The Inspector continued. “But what would be most useful to us would be to get a clear timeline of events leading up to the...” He paused for the briefest second, weighing his words, “...incident. And I am told that you are the best man to give us that.”

Roland couldn’t help but puff his chest out slightly at that. “I can tell you that.” He agreed, more amicably than before. “We first noticed trouble with the flies about an hour before the show.”

“An hour?” Lord Peter looked up from a notebook he had produced from somewhere, looking bright eyed and interested. “Were they not checked earlier?”

“We had some delays.” He said defensively. “Tom didn’t come in today, and he usually handles all of that.” A brief glance was exchanged between his three questioners.

“And who is Tom?” Lord Peter asked.

“Deputy Master Carpenter. He usually takes on all the flying work. Frank, our Master Carpenter, isn’t really up to that sort of thing any more.”

“Why?” The woman, Miss Vane, asked. Roland shifted uncomfortably.

“He’s not got the head for heights he used to.”

“That must be an imposition, given his job.”

“Well, he’s had Tom for a long time, and Tom’s a real natural with all those things. Frank’s been teaching him since he was boy, treats him like his own son. He’s a good lad.” Roland added, feeling defensive again.

“So you noticed the problem an hour before the show.” The Inspector prompted after silence had fallen for a few moments.

“Yes. And I said to Frank, ‘Well someone is going to have to go up there.’ But by then the house was nearly open and we didn’t want to hold it, what with all the critics and everyone in, so we decided to wait until the interval, when we could pull the tabs and sort it out.”

“What precisely was the problem?” Lord Peter asked.

“The wardrobe wouldn’t fly.” Roland decided some more explanation may be needed. “In the final set, the wardrobe is supposed to fly in, but when we checked the ropes it wasn’t moving well. Of course, when we got to the interval and I went up to the grid...”

“You went up?” Asked the Inspector, surprised. Roland sighed, all deference gone.

“Well Frank couldn’t, and the dayman had gone home. I wasn’t going to send the boy up, he can’t be trusted.”

“And what did you find?”

“The rope had slipped the pulley. At least, that’s what we thought.”

“What do you mean, what you thought?”

“Well obviously it had been pulled up. To keep that, him, up in the grid.”

“But surely he wasn’t on the rope for the wardrobe?” Miss Vane cut in. “They didn’t both come down from the grid, only he did.”

“Then I must have slipped the wrong rope back onto the pulley.” Roland replied, exasperated. Miss Vane subsided, her expression confused.

“And after that the play continued as normal?” The Inspector asked.

“Yes until the final scene, obviously.”  
“Obviously.”

“When do you think it was done?” Lord Peter asked.

“When what was done?”

“The rigging up. Must have been a bit of a job, getting that poor fellow all the way up there.” Roland considered for a moment.

“Last night.” He said finally. “After the show. Can’t think when else it could have been. We were here from the afternoon call, and the daymen were here in the morning. No other time it could have been done.” He thought for a moment. “You should talk to Eric.”  
“Eric?” The Inspector asked, making a note.

“Stage door keeper. He’ll know who was in and out of the building last night, and when he locked the doors.”

“We will speak to Eric then.” He paused a moment. “Tell me, Mr Barker, what did you make of Mr Lawrence?” Roland made a face, then thought better of it.

“He wasn’t quite my cup of tea.” He answered diplomatically.

“Did he get on well with people, in general?” Miss Vane asked. Roland snorted before he could stop himself.

“Our Mr Lawrence wasn’t really a people person.”

“Didn’t get on well with people?”

“Oh he could get on with anyone if he so chose.” Roland thought for a moment, then decided to put his cards on the table. “The thing about Mr Lawrence was that he always knew what everyone wanted. And he would do his best to make sure they didn’t get it.”

***

“Well that was enlightening.” Peter said as they left the stage manager to his increasingly fractious charges.

“We should find this Tom.” Inspector Parker replied. “I’ll get one of the constables to get his address, go round and knock him up.”

“Have them bring him here if they can find him. We might be needing him.” Peter cast a critical eye over them both. “I think a little efficiency is called for if we are to see our beds ‘ere the dawn. Will you let us handle Eric of the stage door Parker-Bird? While you tackle Frank the Master Carpenter?” If Inspector Parker was annoyed by Peter telling him his job, he hid it well. Harriet supposed he must get a great deal of practise.

“If you like Peter.” He agreed amicably. “Shall we meet on the stage in half an hour or so?”

“We shall be there.” As they walked towards the steps that would lead them to the stage door, Peter leaned closer to Harriet, looking oddly uncertain. “You don’t have to stay y’know.” He murmured to her. “If you don’t want to.” Harriet felt a flash of anger, an automatic response to years of patronisation, but she forced it back down with an effort. ‘You know what he means’ she thought to herself. ‘Even if he sometimes expresses himself like an ass.’ The problem was that part of her would like to go home, to leave this one to Peter and avoid for once all the horribleness of the world that seemed to dog her footsteps. But that feeling was precisely the reason she had to stay.

“I want to see this through.” She murmured back. The look Peter gave her was an odd mixture of approval and concern but he held his tongue, proving, she supposed, that one of his most appealing features was that he was not an ass all the time.

They had reached the top of the final staircase, where the stage door keeper sat in a tiny office, little more than a cubby hole with a window open to the corridor. It was also noticeably colder up here, after the warmth below stage. Eric, the stage door keeper, proved to be a small man with a mostly bald head, adorned only by a few wisps of thin grey hair. He was also the unfortunate owner of one of those perpetually mournful expressions, that make their owner look as if nothing in the world has ever gone well for them.

“Would you be Eric?” Peter asked him, leaning casually through the window. The stage door keeper looked up at him, startled.

“That’s me. And who are you? Where did you come from?” Peter straightened up from the window and came round to the door into the little office. He opened it without invitation and passed through, pressing a handshake on Eric that he would have found it hard to refuse. Trying not to smile, Harriet followed him.

“Peter Wimsey, and this is Miss Harriet Vane. I assume you have heard about what happened this evening? We are working with the police.” If anything Eric looked more startled at this turn of events, but he beckoned them to sit regardless.

“I don’t know anything.” He began before Peter had even asked a question. Peter looked at him speculatively.

“On the contrary I think you might know a great deal Mr...”

“Bates, Eric Bates. But I’ve been up here since ten o’clock this morning Sir, how could I know anything?”

“You see all the people come and go Mr Bates, you must appreciate how useful that could be.”

“I suppose so.” He agreed, sounding almost sullen.

“So what we would like to know,” continued Peter with no apparent reaction to the stage door keeper’s tone. “Is who came and went last night, after the show came down.”

“But I thought it happened today Sir?” Eric looked confused.

“The entrance was today, but the first act must have been last night, for the rigging of the thing.” Peter explained. He was slipping into an overly jovial tone, and Harriet strongly resisted the urge to kick him in the shins.

“Nobody came back in. I locked up about one o’clock and went home. If anyone came back after that I wouldn’t know.” Mr Bates clearly found Peter’s tone as unnerving as Harriet did.

“Are you sure about that?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know what I can’t know Sir. But I left at one o’clock, and I locked up behind me.”

“Does anyone else have a key?” Harriet asked.

“Only poor Mr Lawrence. Maybe he let himself in and hung himself.”

“And bashed himself on the head and hoisted himself into the flies?” Peter asked. This time Harriet did tap him, but she restrained herself to a gentle finger on the arm. He gave her an apologetic glance. Eric seemed upset by the details, and as he reached out for the mug of tea on his desk, his hands shook.

“I don’t know anything about that Sir.” He replied. “I did my job, and I went home.”

“Did you like Mr Lawrence?” Peter asked, changing the subject abruptly. Eric paused for a moment, as if thinking about his answer.

“I can’t say we were friends Sir.”

“But you respected him? As an employer?” Mr Bates gave an almost imperceptible wince.

“He wasn’t the easiest of men to work for Sir, but we all did our best to do right by him.”

“Can you think of a reason why anyone might have wanted to cause him harm?”

“I don’t think anyone felt as strongly about him as that. The didn’t like him much, but...” he trailed off into a shrug. Beside her Harriet could feel Peter tensing with impatience, but he ended the interview peaceably enough.

“Somebody must have felt very strongly indeed.” He muttered to her as they left.

***

Frank Watts did not look much like Inspector Parker’s idea of a Master Carpenter. To be honest, he did not look very much like Inspector Parker’s idea of a master of anything at all. Following the directions of the stage manager Parker had found Mr Watts in his small office under the stage, smoking roll-up cigarettes with nicotine stained fingers.

“So you didn’t go up to the flies yourself?” Mr Watts shook his head, fiddling with the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

“Can’t.” He said shortly. “Not any more.”

“Your nerves?” Inspector Parker asked

“I fell. Nearly broke my spine, lucky I only broke both legs. You try climbing up there after that.”

“Seems it might be difficult to do your job without going up there.” Parker remarked equitably.

“Seems like maybe.” Mr Watts answered shortly. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers again. “But Tom will do all the climbing for me, he knows what to do.”

“And Tom is your deputy?” Mr Watts nodded.

“Been with me six years, since he was barely more than a boy.” For the first time in the conversation, the hint of a smile graced Mr Watt’s face. “Started out low and worked his way up. He’s a good lad, done well by me as long as I’ve known him.”

“But he’s not here today.”

“He had to have a day off, personal reasons. He works hard.” He said the last part mulishly, as if this was some point of argument between them.

“Do you know what those reasons were?”

“He has a friend, going back to university. This was the last night they could see each other.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of a reason for missing such an important show.”

“That was his reason. And it was no business of mine to go digging into it further.” Mr Watts paused. “And it’s no business of yours neither.”

‘We’ll see about that.’ Parker thought.

“Tell me” he said out loud, changing the subject. “How would you say they got the body up there, anyway? Seems a big job for one man.”

“One man could do it if he was determined enough.” Mr Watts replied. “It’s not so bad if you know how to use the pulleys and sandbags.”

“But it still seems a great deal of effort to go to. There must be a million other places to hide a body in a place like this.”

“Maybe they weren’t trying to hide it.” Mr Watts shrugged. “Seems like a statement to me.”

“A statement of what?”

“A statement about Mr Lawrence.” He replied darkly.

“I’ve been told he wasn’t the easiest to work with.” Parker said, making a show of consulting his notes. He was in the theatre after all, he deserved a few props. To his surprise Mr Watts let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Roland has always been too much of a diplomat.” He said. “That’s how he can still stand to work for producers and not for the house.”

“You have a different opinion then?”

“Oh no, he was difficult to work with alright. He was difficult to work with because he was a bully, with no respect for any but those he saw as his betters.”  
“And who was that?”

“Nobody here.” Mr Watts said shortly. “Those in the management office maybe, but I wouldn’t like to count on it.”

“So he was a bully to the staff?”

“He was a bully to everyone. Mind you some copped it worse than others. Poor old Eric on the stage door, he caught the worst of it. He used to work up here y’know, on the stage. But he upset the wrong people and they sent him down to the door.”

“So he was a particular enemy of Mr Lawrence’s?”

“I don’t know if Eric has it in him to be the enemy of anyone. But like I say, he wasn’t the only one that he went after, he just caught it worse than most.”

“Why was that?”

“Wouldn’t defend himself I suppose. He liked a soft target.” Mr Watts stared down at the cigarette in his hands, rolling it back and forth again.

“Were you here last night?” Asked Inspector Parker after a moment.

“I was here until the show came down, then I went home to my bed.” Mr Watts replied. “And Tom was gone before me, so there’s no point looking to him either.”

“I’m not looking to anyone Mr Watts.” Said Parker patiently. “I’m just trying to establish movements.”

“Well, now you know mine. I suppose it must have been done last night, after the show then. Only time to rig it I suppose.”

“You would know that better than I do.”

Mr Watts nodded. He reached onto his desk for a book of matches. “If there wasn’t anything else?” He said, gesturing vaguely to the match book, the cigarette and the door. Feeling suitably dismissed, Inspector Parker made his exit.

***

“Peter!” By the time Inspector Parker reached the stage Peter was, almost inevitably, halfway up one of the iron ladders that lead into the darkness of the flies above. At Parker’s shout he waved and climbed down a few steps, before leaping gracefully to the floor. Harriet had a look somewhere between fondness and complete exasperation, and Parker felt a moment of kinship with her.

“Just trying it out for myself.” Peter grinned unrepentantly. “Hell of a job I would have thought.”

“The Master Carpenter tells me it could be done by one man, if he were suitably motivated.”

“I would have said that whoever they were, they were very motivated indeed.” Harriet remarked.

“And there seems to have been quite a bit of motive to go around.” Peter was dusting his trousers in a slightly distracted way. “Not a well liked man our poor Mr Lawrence.”

“I would imagine your last conversation put that point home pretty strongly.”

“Not really.” Harriet frowned. “Mr Bates didn’t like him, that much was obvious, but he didn’t seem as vehement as the stage manager.”

“Mr Bates?”

“The stage door keeper.”

“Well, that is odd.” Parker got his notebook out of his pocket and checked, despite knowing its contents off by heart. “According to the Master Carpenter, Mr Watts, the stage door keeper was one of Mr Lawrence’s favourite victims.” Harriet cast her eyes over to Peter.

“He said nothing about it to us.”

“Hmm, interesting.” Peter wandered over to them. He reached for Parker’s notebook and the Inspector handed it to him without protest. He scanned the notes, and then handed it to Harriet.

“Well apart from leaving out his feelings for the departed, Mr Bates most singular piece of information was that he was that he locked the doors and went home to his bed at one o’clock last night.”

“He never did.” A new voice joined them unexpectedly. From the shadows emerged a young man in evening dress. He was familiar, but it took Harriet a few moments to place him.

“How long have you been there?” Asked Parker sharply. The young man smiled back at him in what he probably imagined was a winning fashion.

“Not long. Sorry an’all, but this is terribly exciting isn’t it.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the attitude to take.” For an honest man, Peter was capable of stunning feats of hypocrisy. “You’re one of the actors, aren’t you?” The man stepped further into the light, looking pleased to be recognised.

“Edward Fisher. I play Jonathan. On weekdays anyway.”

“And on weekends?”  
“I let my understudy take the mats, they’re such a fag.” He grinned again.

“What did you mean by saying ‘he never did’. Do you know the theatre was open after one?” Parker, sensibly in Harriet’s opinion, attempted to drag the conversation back on course.

“No. But I do know it was shut at midnight.”

“And how do you know that?”

“We came back of course. Left a bottle or two in the dressing room, wanted them before we went on to the club. It was a real bore, usually you can get back in until about one.”

“But last night you couldn’t?”

“All dark and quiet when we tried. Do you think it means something? Is it a clue? I was a detective once you know.”

“Were you?” Parker asked speculatively.

“Oh yes, for three weeks at the Palace, and then a few more in the regions. I think I got a taste for it.” He struck an exaggerated pose of interest and tipped an imaginary hat. “And where were you on the night in question?” He asked Harriet with a wink.

“This is not a laughing matter young man.” Harriet said, although a hint of a smile was playing around her mouth. Edward graced her with another of his winning smiles.

“Can anyone corroborate your story?” Peter asked, his tone a little less friendly since Edward approached Harriet.

“Ooh, am I a witness?” Edward asked, delighted, and apparently completely unaware of Peter’s change in tone. “Even better, am I a suspect? I should say no and let you confirm my alibi.”

“No, you should tell us the truth and save us all, especially you, a great deal of trouble.” Parker growled.

“Oh alright then.” The look Edward cast them strongly suggested that they were spoiling his fun. He turned and disappeared through a pass door like a rabbit down a hole. A few minutes later he returned with a young woman who Harriet recognised as the actress playing the heroine of the piece. She looked, if possible, even more exasperated with Edward than the people he had left behind on the stage.

“This is Cissy. Cissy, tell them that I speak nothing but the truth.”

“What have you been telling them Edward?” She sighed the deep and weary sigh of someone to whom Edward happened several times a day. “Has he been making a nuisance of himself?”

“No Miss.” Parker said politely. “And who might you be?”

“Cissy… I mean, Cecilia Fisher.”

Parker raised his eyebrows. “Are you…?”

“Mrs Edward Fisher? Yes.” She shot Edward a look that was part irritation, but mostly fondness. “I know, you wouldn’t think he was old enough, would you.”

“Did you return with Mr Fisher to the theatre last night?”

“Oh is that what this is about?” Cecilia thought about this for a moment and her eyes widened. “Of course, I suppose they must have rigged the thing last night, mustn’t they? There would have been no opportunity to do it today.” Harriet considered for a moment that Cecilia would make a far better detective than her husband. ‘Perhaps’ she thought, ‘I should write her a mystery.’ She filed the thought for later and returned to the matter at hand.

“Indeed Mrs Fisher.” Peter agreed. “Which is why we are interested in what time, precisely, you returned to the theatre last night.”  
“Midnight.” She answered promptly. “I was checking my watch, because we weren’t sure if old Eric would still be here. It was dark when we arrived, and the stage door was locked.”

“So the building must have been empty.” Parker remarked.

“Well, apart from Mr Lawrence of course.” Cissy replied.

“I don’t know if we can assume Mr Lawrence was dead by midnight.” Peter was musing out loud. “He may have been brought back here later.”

“Sorry,” Cissy looked confused. “I meant either way, he would have been here. He lives… I mean he lived here.” Parker, who’s attention had been drawn away to staring into the darkness above, snapped back to her.

“Pardon?”

“He lived here. There’s a flat above the theatre for use of the manager.” She paused, “did you not know? It’s a fairly common arrangement.”

“Is it, by Jove.” Peter murmured. “So Mr Lawrence never left the theatre?”

“Not to go home, no. He just...” she waved her hand in the vague direction of the ceiling. “Went upstairs.” Edward was watching her with the sort of undisguised adoration that Harriet had previously thought was only to be found in books and on the faces of small dogs.

“She’s a clever one, my Cissy.” He said. Cissy gave him a soft smile.

“You have been very helpful Mrs Fisher, thank you.” Parker said a little stiffly, obviously uncomfortable with Edward’s devotion. Or possibly just with Edward.

“That’s quite alright Inspector.” Cissy took Edward’s hand. “Come and help with the drinks Edward, I think we might be here for a while and Martin never knows what to put in anything.”

“Well,” Peter said once they had left the stage. “How did we miss that one then?”

“Nobody told us.” Parker replied, looking a bit put out. “Of course we’d have found out eventually.”

“So that means that whoever killed Mr Lawrence could have just waited in his flat, then brought him down to the stage.” Harriet said. “But why? They could have left him there, and avoided any of this exposure.”

“The Master Carpenter had a theory about that.” Parker said. “In his opinion the body appearing on stage was not an accident.”

“But why would a murderer want to reveal a body in such a public way? They are asking to be caught, surely?”

“A statement?” Parker sounded doubtful. “Some kind of pathological case?”

“Everything in this case is where and why.” Peter said from the side of the stage. He was staring up into the dark. “We know where he ended up, but why was he there? And where was he before he found his into the rigging.” His tone was soft, a voice Harriet recognised as meaning he was somewhere inside his own head, and not quite there with them. He stared up contemplatively for a few more moments, then seemed to pull himself together.

“We should talk to the stage door keeper again. And Parker, we should get somebody up to that flat, and check we have not spent all evening blissfully walking around under a bloody murder scene.”

***

If Eric Bates had been startled by their presence the first time, this time he looked positively terrified by it.

“I don’t know what you mean!” He said in response to Inspector Parker’s question. “I was here until one, and then I locked up and went home, same as always.”

“But we have witnesses Mr Bates, who say the doors were locked and the theatre dark by midnight last night.” Said Inspector Parker patiently.

“I might have locked them a little early.” Mr Bates said reluctantly. “I sometimes do that. But I was here until one. I just lock the doors to keep people from coming back in while I’m clearing the building.”

“And turned off the lights?”

“Well if I don’t do that and someone does come back, they’ll scream blue murder until I let them in.”

“How did Mr Lawrence feel about this little routine of yours?” Peter asked.

“He didn’t know.” Mr Bates admitted. “I should be at my post until one o’clock. But if I stayed here ‘til one and then did my rounds of the building, I wouldn’t leave until nearly two. I’m not a young man, I need my rest.”

“Had he gone back to his flat by midnight last night then?” Harriet asked on a flash of inspiration. Mr Bates looked even more uncomfortable.

“He must have done.” He agreed.

“Your relationship with Mr Lawrence.” Peter changed the subject smoothly. “You said that he wasn’t the easiest man to work for.”

“I did say that Sir. But I didn’t mean it as badly as it sounds.” Peter smiled.

“Of course you didn’t. It’s an odd thing though, Inspector Parker here heard that Mr Lawrence was particularly hard on you.” Mr Bates shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes glancing between Peter and Inspector Parker.

“I wouldn’t have said that Sir, not much harder than he was on anyone else.”

“So you wouldn’t describe him as a bully?” Parker asked. Mr Bates shifted again.

“I wouldn’t use that word.”

“And what word would you use?”

“He wasn’t kind Inspector. And no, he wasn’t fair. And maybe he did go after me a little more than the others. But I’ve been here a long time Inspector, and I’ve learned to keep a thick skin.”

“Have you always been at the stage door?” Peter asked.

“No Sir, I was backstage for some years before I came here.”

“Did you not like the work?”

“I liked it well enough. But it was hard Sir, and I’m not a young man.”

“But you’re not a particularly old one. You can’t be more than fifty, surely?”

“Fifty two.” Mr Bates replied looking sullen.

“No great age for an active man then.” Peter said with a reassuring smile. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Did something happen Mr Bates? Was there a reason you left backstage and came here?” Mr Bates looked caught.

“There was an accident.” He said eventually. “No one died, or anything like that, but it was… nasty.”

“And it was your fault?”

“Some people said it was.”

“So you were moved to the stage door?”

“As you see me.” Mr Bates swept an ironic hand around his small office. Oddly, the confession of his demotion seemed to have given him more confidence. “It was all a very long time ago.”

“Did Mr Lawrence move you to the stage door?” Harriet asked, her brain whirring.

“Yes. But I didn’t resent him for it. There was nothing else to be done.”

Harriet was about to reply to this when their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the stage door swinging open. Mr Bates stood, ready to protest the intrusion, when the bulk of a uniformed constable filled the door.

“Inspector.” The constable said, nodding to the rest of them. He stood aside and ushered in a slight young man, the disparity between them so great it reminded Harriet of David and Goliath. The young man looked around the assembled faces, his expression a mixture of fear and confusion.

“What’s happened Eric?” He asked after a moment. “They wouldn’t tell me, just said I had to come back with them.”

“It’s Mr Lawrence, Tom.” Eric replied.

“What’s he done?”

“He hasn’t done anything.” Inspector Parker broke in. “He has been murdered.” Tom transferred his gaze to the Inspector, eyes wide with shock.

“Never.” He said.

“I’m afraid so. And you would be?”

“Thomas Miller Inspector.” Said the constable quickly, as if he felt his part had been usurped. “You asked us to fetch him.”

“The Deputy Master Carpenter?” Parker asked, addressing Tom. He nodded mutely. “You

had better come with me then.” Parker gestured both Tom and the constable to follow him back down the stairs.

***

“What happened?” Tom asked almost as soon as the door had closed behind them.

“In a moment Mr Miller.” Parker replied as he led them back to the office they had used previously. He invited Tom to sit, along with Peter and Harriet. The constable, who had followed them in, remained standing.

“Mr Lawrence appears to have been murdered late last night Mr Miller.” Parker explained. Tom was an attractive boy, Harriet thought, dark brown hair and startlingly blue eyes that were currently darting between Peter, Inspector Parker and the constable with clear confusion. She noted with amusement that he seemed to have almost forgotten her presence.

“But you’re only investigating it now?” He asked.

“The body wasn’t discovered until this evening’s performance.” Peter said drily. Lacking context, Tom did not appear to register his tone, although Parker looked at him in askance.

“During the performance?” He asked, turning slightly pale.

“Very much so. As I understand the matter, it took the place of a wardrobe during the final scene.”

“It was in the flies?”

“Until the last fly cue, yes.”

“It didn’t actually...” Tom trailed off, looking slightly green.

“Very much so.” Peter said with his own particular brand of unholy cheeriness. “Quite the climax of the performance.”

“Good God.” Tom raised a shaking hand and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I understand that maintenance of the flies would be your responsibility Mr Miller?” Parker broke in.

“What? Oh, yes.” Tom’s attention was clearly elsewhere, but he drew himself back with a small shake of his head. “Frank can’t manage the grid any more, so I do all the heights work.”

“And when was the last time you in the grid?”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with it?” Tom asked, shocked. “I wasn’t even here today.”

“We are fairly certain Mr Lawrence was taken up to the grid last night.” Parker returned levelly. “And I understand you were here then.”

“Until the end of the show. I had to meet a friend.” There was a new note in Tom’s voice and Harriet realised that for the first time, he sounded frightened.

“Did you leave directly after the show?”

“I had to do the reset, then I left. It would have been about half past ten? I met a friend, as I said. Then we went back to my lodgings. He was staying with me before he went back up to Cambridge.”

“And your friend left today?”

“How did you know that?” Tom’s eyes skittered around the room again, landing on Harriet and Peter, before casting a longer and more level look at the constable.

“Mr Watts told me that was the reason you were absent today. To see off a friend. Seems an odd thing to need a whole evening off for, if he was only going up to Cambridge.”

“I went with him, to help with baggage. I’d only just got back when your constable found me.” Again Tom’s eyes darted around the room, settling briefly on the constable.

“I see. Did he have a lot of things to take with him, your friend? Books I suppose.”

“Something like that.”

“Does his family live in London?”

“No.”

“But he comes to stay in London between terms?”

“His family are in the north of Scotland. It’s sometimes difficult for him to make the trip.”

“Have you been friends for some time?”

“For a while, yes.” Tom had crossed his arms. “I don’t see how this is relevant to Mr Lawrence.”

“I’m just trying to understand, Mr Miller, why a man who hasn’t had a day off in six years should choose to be absent for such an important performance. Particularly when the only reason he can give me is seeing a friend back to university.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened to Mr Lawrence.” Tom said stubbornly. “And as for the rest of it, I don’t see how it is any of your business how I choose to spend my time.”

“There was evidence of another person staying at Mr Miller’s residence.” The constable spoke up, surprising everyone in the room. “Bedclothes and such.”

“Yes, thank you constable.” Said Parker, slightly put out. However the constable seemed to be either unusually determined, or unusually insensitive to tone.

“Mr Miller also has the ticket stubs for his journey, if you would like to see them Sir. He left on the 09:23, and returned by the last train.”

“That seems like an awfully long time for a trip to Cambridge.”

“We decided to make a day of it.” Said Tom sounding more defensive than ever. “I’d never been before.”

“Did you like it?” Peter asked him, a slight smile playing about his lips.

“I thought it very pretty.” Tom addressed Peter for the first time.

“Really? I would say it is not a patch on Oxford, but that may just be my feudal loyalties showing through.”

“I’ve never seen Oxford.”

“You must try to make a friend there as well then, for comparison purposes.” Peter’s eyes were twinkling ever so slightly. “Tell me Mr Miller, you must know the ropes of this building better than anyone. How do you think it was done?”

“Mr Lawrence you mean?” Tom seemed to be almost relieved by the question. “I can think of a few ways, but I would have to have seen it to be sure.”

“Well unless Inspector Parker’s men have been more thorough than usual, I suspect it is much as it was a few hours ago.” Peter remarked offhandedly. “Shall we all have a look together?” For all the subtlety of the look of irritated confusion Inspector Parker gave Peter, he might as well have spoken aloud. Peter however cheerfully ignored him.

“If you like.” Tom said. “I can take you up there right enough.” He looked at Harriet doubtfully. “Unless of course you would rather remain on the stage.” His tone suggested he strongly hoped she would. Nothing else in the world could have motivated Harriet to climb a ladder as well as that.

“I’m game if you are.”

***

As they proceeded towards the stage, another constable approached them.

“The Doctor has sent through a report Sir.” Parker motioned to Harriet and Peter, and they subtly dropped back.

“What does it say?” Parker asked.

“He says Mr Lawrence’s injuries are consistent with death by strangulation Sir. And that he was likely unconscious from a blow to the head with a large flat instrument. He said anything else would have to wait for the morning and a full autopsy.”

“Very well, that’s quite enough to be going on with.” The constable looked as if he was keen to join their trip to the stage, but Parker sent him off to other duties with barely disguised irritation.

“The Doc didn’t miss his guess then.” He remarked to Peter and Harriet once the man was gone. He gave a slight shudder. “This is a bad business.”

They had reached the pass door to the stage, and Tom opened it and ushered them all through. Parker however, stopped the constable who had accompanied Tom to the theatre at the doorway and whispered into his ear. The constable looked somewhat put out, but turned back down the corridor towards the crew rooms.

Tom swung easily up the ladder to the grid, climbing with a cat-like grace that suggested that this was his natural habitat. Parker followed with a more workman-like approach to climbing, and Peter insisted that Harriet went before him up the ladder. As she climbed Harriet thanked with all her soul her father’s advice that no event was too formal to preclude the wearing of sensible shoes. The grid once she reached it turned out to be a series of rough hewn boards laid out over a grid of timbers. Around them ropes passed through pulleys and disappeared into the darkness below. Harriet looked down once, then thought better of it. Tom, she noticed, had already made his way across to far side of the floor, and was critically examining a rope tied to a cleat sunk in the wall. Carefully, the three of them picked their way over to join him.

“It’s been tied off.” He said by way of a greeting.

“What has?” Peter asked, looking around himself. Tom gestured to the rope.

“The wardrobe. The rope it’s on has been tied off. Someone must have swapped it with the rope Mr Lawrence was...” He stopped, as if unsure of the correct words for what had happened.

“So Mr Lawrence would have been on the rope that the wardrobe should have been on?” Peter asked. Tom nodded.

“Mr Barker said the rope had slipped the pulley.” Harriet said.

“Been pulled you mean.” Tom gestured to the pulleys. “No rope slips them accidentally. If this rope was out then someone pulled it. Probably to stop the wardrobe… I mean, what was in place of the wardrobe, from flying in.”

“But why not just tie off the rope then? Like this one?” Parker asked.

“They must have wanted to fly it at some point.” Tom said, thoughtfully. “I can’t think of another reason.”

“Maybe Mr Watts was right.” Peter murmured to Harriet. Tom looked up sharply.

“What’s Frank been saying?” He demanded. “He hasn’t been up here in years.”

“Just something about the psychology of our murderer Mr Miller.”

“I don’t think you would need much psychology to murder Mr Lawrence.” Tom said with unexpected heat. “Good old common sense would probably be enough.” He blushed suddenly, as if remembering who he was talking to, and why.

“We have been told he was difficult.” Parker said with exaggerated calmness.

“He was a bully.” Tom said shortly, having obviously decided that he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. “He tormented people. He tormented Eric, he tormented Frank, he tormented me...”

“And what did he torment you about?” Parker cut in smoothly. Even in the dim light, Harriet could see Tom’s eyes go wider with fear.

“Everything. And nothing. He was just a bully.” Tom stuttered. Parker opened his mouth to press home his advantage, but just as he began to speak Peter interrupted him by making a surprised exclamation.

“Hello.” He said, and knelt to pick something up from the gap between two of the rough boards. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket but as he did so Harriet caught the briefest glimpse of a rolled up cigarette.

“What is it?” Parker asked.

“Oh nothing important.” Peter replied, “just an unconsidered trifle. Unless you have any more lines to pursue up here Inspector, if you will pardon the pun, perhaps we should adjourn to the ground?”

“Very well.” Said Parker, still slightly sour. Once they had returned to the stage Tom asked if he could go.

“You can go as far as the crew rooms.” Parker said severely. “But stay in the building until we give the word that you can go home.”

“Do you think you will catch them tonight?” Tom asked, looking sceptical.

“I think there’s a fair chance.” Peter was looking at the ropes tied to the wall. “One last thing Mr Miller.”

“Yes?”

“Mr Watts suggested to the Inspector here that one man, sufficiently motived, could have taken the body up to the grid...” Peter was interrupted by Tom giving a short bark of laughter.

“Frank is always overestimating what one man can do.” Tom said with a smile. “It’s got us in more trouble than I can tell you over the years.”

“So you think it’s a two man job then?”

“I know it’s a two man job. I’ve worked those flies since I was old enough to pull a rope.”

***

“So what do you think?” They had retreated to an unused dressing room that one of the constables had found and thoughtfully commandeered for them. Parker was seated in an armchair of dubious origin, while Harriet perched on a refugee from a cheap dining set, and Peter lounged against the dressing table like an overgrown cat.

“I think we should talk to Mr Bates again.” Peter flicked open his cigarette case. He offered it round, and after receiving polite refusals lit one himself. Both Harriet and Inspector Parker nodded at his suggestion.

“Then you think the same as me.” Parker said.

“I suspect I think some of the same as you.” Peter said. “And possibly some things very differently.”

“But he can’t have done it alone.” Harriet said thoughtfully. “And I know Mr Lawrence wasn’t a very nice man, but could he really have roused two people enough to want to kill him?”

“And why make it so public?” Parker asked. “Why go about it in such a theatrical way.” He winced at the end of the sentence, aware of his own pun.

“Those are the two questions that have dogged us since the beginning.” Peter said, straightening up and extinguishing his cigarette in a convenient ashtray. “I think I can answer them both with a small chat with Mr Bates.” He fixed Parker with a look of sudden fierce intensity. “But only, Parker-Bird, if you let me talk to him alone.”

“Peter, you know I can’t let you do that.” Parker said, but even as he did Harriet could already sense the defeat in the slope of his shoulders.

“I promise you my dear Inspector, fifteen minutes alone with Mr Bates and I will have you murderers for you.”

“And I may talk to him afterwards?”

“Afterwards you may do as you wish.” Peter said magnanimously. Parker sighed deeply.

“Very well.”

They left the dressing room and headed back towards the stage door. Harriet, to whom the theatre had seemed nothing but an endless maze of corridors when they had first started this, now found herself able to navigate with surprising ease. She glanced at her watch. Had it really been only four hours since all this begun? Looking up, she realised that Peter had dropped back slightly to walk next to her.

“I’m sorry.” He said sincerely. “But I’m afraid you can’t be there when I talk to Bates either.” Harriet looked surprised.

“I never expected to be.” She replied. “You said you needed to talk to him alone.” Peter gave her a sudden smile.

“And there it is again.” He said.

“There what is?”

“The reason I am marrying you.”

“Do you often forget why then?” She asked, teasing gently. Peter looked offended.

“I never would.”

“I should think not.” Harriet offered him a slight smile as they reached the top of the stairs and entered the corridor to the stage door. “Go on then, perform your magic tricks.”

“Sometimes I think you do not take me entirely seriously.” Peter griped. He nodded to Parker and then entered the stage door keeper’s room, shutting the door behind him. Harriet and the Inspector were left alone in the draughty corridor.

“Do you always let him do these things?” Harriet asked after a few moments. Parker looked momentarily startled, then he took on a look of fond resignation.

“I find that what he lacks in formality, he makes up for in effectiveness.” He said after a moment. “Besides, I have very little say in what he does, so I may as well encourage him to do things to my advantage.”

“I don’t think anyone has much say in what Peter does.” Harriet replied. “Bunter perhaps.”

“And you.” Inspector Parker told her. Harriet thought about that for a moment. Her instinct was to deny it, to say that she had no more say in what Peter did than anyone else. Even when he did things for her, he had a habit of doing them his own way. And yet, she supposed, he was changing in ways she had not quite appreciated. His approach in Oxford was better than that in Wilvercombe, and almost anything was an improvement from their first meeting.

“I dare say that effect will wane over time.” She said. But Parker shook his head.

“Mary told me once that very few things have ever changed Peter. The war did, for better or worse, but almost everything else in his life has rolled off his back like water from a duck. Except you.”

“I shall endeavour to keep to changes for the better then.” Harriet said, trying to lighten the odd mood that had settled over them. She was relieved, a few minutes later, when the door to the office opened and Peter beckoned them over. As he allowed the door to swing shut she caught a glimpse of Mr Bates, looking somehow infinitely smaller in his chair.

“Get a constable to sit with him will you.” Peter said quietly. “We have to make an arrest.”

“Of whom?” Parker asked impatiently.

“Frank Watts.”

***

Harriet had always intended to end her evening drinking good brandy in front of Peter’s excellent fire, but she had not imagined it being quite so late, or with this particular company. Inspector Parker was sat in another armchair, this one with a known and prestigious pedigree. Bunter, who had been roused by their entrance to the Piccadilly flat, had insisted on making up both drinks and the fire, and had been pressed by Peter to stay against his natural inclinations toward maintaining the hierarchy of master and servant. Perhaps in deference to this he had stayed in the room, and even accepted a small glass of the inferior brandy, but had chosen to perch on probably the most uncomfortable chair in Peter’s collection.

“So you see Bunter, it was quite the little problem.”

“Indeed my Lord.” Said Bunter obediently from the sidelines. Peter had settled into his storytelling with relish.

“The how was obvious, of course.” Peter began again, settling with his drink in his hand. “Mr Lawrence must have been killed after the show last night, and two people must have been involved. No one could enter the building without Mr Bates seeing them. So therefore, Mr Bates must have been one of the killers.”

“And he had good reason.” Parker added. “Everyone agreed that Mr Lawrence had been tormenting him for years.” Peter however shook his head.

“He had good reason to hate Mr Lawrence Parker-Bird. But not enough reason to kill him I shouldn’t have thought.”

“Then why did he kill him?”

“That is where our second murderer comes in.”

“Mr Watts.” Harriet said. “But he didn’t seem to have any more reason to kill Mr Lawrence than anyone else.”

“For him, no.” Peter agreed. Harriet’s eyes widened as she realised what he meant.

“Tom.” She said. Peter nodded.

“What about Tom?” Parker sounded slightly irritated. He was also a brandy ahead of the rest of them, Harriet noted, but then it had been a long night.

“Tom was like a son to him. And if Mr Lawrence was threatening him that might just have pushed Mr Watts over the edge.”

“But what could Mr Lawrence have threatened Tom with?” Parker asked. Harriet and Peter exchanged a look, part surprise and part concern. Even Bunter, who had had the evening’s events already described to him in some detail, looked at the Inspector in surprise.

“There are some things you may be better off not knowing, Parker-Bird.” Peter said. Parker looked mutinous.

“He’ll tell us in the dock, if not before.” He said.

“I would bet you a King’s ransom he won’t.” Peter replied. “But anyway, the how, as I say, is simple. Mr Lawrence goes up to his flat and Mr Watts follows him on some pretext. Then he convinces him to come back down to the stage, picking up Mr Bates along the way, who locks the doors and turns off the lights.”

“I thought he did that every evening.” Harriet said, but Peter shook his head.

“Think of our Thespian friends.” He admonished gently. “Dear old Cissy and Edward were surprised, because they could routinely get into the theatre up until one o’clock. If locking up at midnight had been Mr Bates’ usual routine, they never would have thought that.”

“True.” She agreed.

“So they get him on to the stage. I don’t quite know what Mr Watts told Mr Bates was going to happen, he wasn’t quite coherent on that point. I think maybe he said they would talk to Mr Lawrence, perhaps scare him a bit. I don’t think he ever thought they would kill him.”

“But he helped to string him up anyway.” Parker said darkly. Peter tipped his glass in his direction.

“Indeed. Anyway, they argue and it grows heated, and someone, probably Mr Watts, hits poor old Mr Lawrence on the back of the head with something heavy. A stage weight is my guess, although I could be wrong. Whatever it was they took it away with them, and it’s probably in the Thames by now.”

“But now they have a problem.” Parker continued, having grasped this part of the story. “They have an unconscious, possibly dead man, and no idea what to do about it.” Peter raised a finger.

“Not quite.” He said. “They have an unconscious man, and one of them, Mr Bates, has no idea what to do about it. I would lay a fair bet that Mr Watts knew exactly what he was going to do.”

“This is the part I don’t understand.” Harriet said. “I mean, I can understand the murder, in a way, but why rig the body to come down during the show?”

“This is why I suspect Mr Watts knew what he was doing all along.” Peter said. “You’re quite right of course, why would anyone want to rig the man they’ve just murdered to make a public appearance less than twenty four hours later? There is only one reason I can think of.”

“Which is?” Parker asked impatiently.

“Misdirection.” Peter stated, pausing to sip his drink. “We have two murderers, but the police only need to catch one. Mr Watts formulates a plan that makes it look as if our murderer hates Mr Lawrence in a pathological way, a way which could only be explained by years of torment at his hands.”  
“Which is exactly what Mr Bates had suffered.” Harriet put in.

“Exactly. He could make the crime seem less calculated, more like the work of an angry man rather than a thoughtful one. And in particular, he could make it seem like something he could never have done himself.”

“Go up into the flies and rig the ropes.”

“Yes. Of course Mr Bates knew how to do it just as well as Mr Watts, since he used to do the job Mr Watts does now.”

“He was the Master Carpenter?” Parker asked, surprised.

“None of us thought to ask him exactly what he did.” Peter said a little sheepishly. “But I got it out of him in that last interview.”

“So Mr Watts never had to go up, because he could send Mr Bates to do it for him. But how did he convince him to do it?”

“According to Mr Bates, he told him they would take the body down later, after the second show.”

Parker nodded. “So Mr Watts got what he wanted, without ever stepping foot in the grid.”

“He did go up though.” Peter said. “Though God knows what it cost him. I suspect he went up to check on Mr Bates’ handiwork.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Peter reached into his jacket pocket and produced the roll up cigarette, still wrapped in a handkerchief.

“I found this in the grid, just near the ladder.” He said, handing it over. Parker gave him a rueful look, but pocketed it without comment. “You said that in his interview he was playing with a rolled up cigarette, probably out of nervous habit. I dare say he dropped that one when his hands were shaking.”

Harriet was staring into the fire. “I suppose that explains why.” She said slowly, half to herself. The attention in the room snapped to her.

“Explains what?” Peter asked gently.

“Why Mr Watts wanted blame to fall on Mr Bates so badly.” She said. Parker looked confused but Peter nodded.

“It does.” He agreed.

“What does?” The Inspector asked.

“If Mr Bates was once the Master Carpenter, there is a good chance Mr Watts worked for him.” Harriet said. “Mr Watts was injured in an accident, and Mr Bates was demoted for an accident that happened while he was in charge.”

“Likely they were one and the same.” Parker nodded. “So Mr Watts saw two chances. Get rid of the threat to his protégé, and have revenge on the man he blames for breaking his nerves.”

“Yes.” Peter agreed.

“And with Mr Miller away for the evening, he could be sure of avoiding suspicion landing on him.” Bunter put in from the sidelines, his empty brandy glass having obviously gone some way to relaxing his sense of place. “Begging your pardon Sir.” He added afterwards.

“Quite right.” Peter stood and collected empty glasses from Harriet and Inspector Parker. Bunter, rising a second later, made several futile attempts to take the glasses from him and tidy them away himself.

“Well, I have an early start.” Parker said, not missing the obvious hint. “I shall see you tomorrow I suppose?” This was directed at Peter.

“Almost certainly Parker-Bird. Like the worst of the bad pennies I am prone to turn up wherever you look.”

“That’s an assessment I can agree with.” Parker said affably, as Bunter helped him on with his coat. “Goodnight Peter, Miss Vane.”

“Give my love to Mary!” Peter called to him as the door closed. He turned to Harriet.

“And shall I see you tomorrow?” He asked softly.

“I would imagine so.” Harriet replied, with an eyebrow arched. “I believe we are due to go down to your brother’s place, so your sister-in-law may judge me wanting once again.”

Peter looked stricken. “Oh dear Lord, are we?” Harriet smiled at him.

“I’m afraid we are.” She agreed. “So I must be off and get my beauty sleep, lest I be found wanting in that department as well as my many other faults.”

“Never could that be.” Said Peter gallantly. “Let me send you home in a car, or drive you myself if you like.”

“That would be most kind. But no doubt a massive inconvenience. Send me in a cab if you want, but I’m happy to walk.”

“No inconvenience.” Peter said, already pulling on his gloves. “Just the pleasure of fifteen more minutes in your company.”

“Peter, I am so tired all the company you are likely to get out of me is a sleeping head on your shoulder.”

“And I look forward to the day when I can have that company every morning.” Peter said with a twinkle in his eye. He opened the door for her, and Harriet swatted him on the shoulder as she passed.

“Could we perhaps avoid a murder while we’re down at Denver?” She asked through a yawn as they climbed into the car. “I’d rather like to know what it is like to enjoy your company without the attendance of the police.”

“I always feel I am at my best with a few attendant policeman.” Peter said as he started the car. “But if you insist.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
